Crystalline Bottles
by SparkedSteel
Summary: Sometimes thing suck. But then they only proceed to get worse. No pairing, violence, lots of vodka bottles.


Feliks hated this place. It wasn't his own home- nor anyplace he would be if he had any choice.

Russia's home. It was huge, spacious. A place befitting royalty with long hallways and high arches.

This place struck Poland as cold. Not just the temperature, though. The house had an impersonal feeling- too huge to care about its occupants.

Feliks hated it.

But he had no say in the matter.

Personally, he'd prefer Russia's place over Germany's. Since September, 1939, both had kept hold of Poland, but at least Russia's home left the opportunity to hide.

And Germany was so much more brutal. Simply from these brutal displays, Feliks's skin was bruised and cut in so many places that he was entirely unsure where one cut or bruise ended, and another began. His clothing was becoming more and more blood stained and filthy. His only incentive to keep his precious uniform was his pride. He wouldn't take the Russian or German clothing offered. He was a proud nation and would wear his uniform as such.

The blonde passed down a hall, staring blankly at the portrait covered walls. He could hear raised voices in a room as he passed, but paid it no heed.

That is, until the door slammed open and an indignant looking Belarus stomped out. Angry eyes automatically locked onto Feliks.

"YOU!" she seethed. "YOU'RE brother's new interest! YOU'RE the reason he doesn't want me! You and that brunette!"

Poland automatically took a couple of steps backwards. Belarus wasn't someone he wanted to tangle with. Her violent nature preceded itself.

"Like, I don't know what you're talking about," Feliks replied carefully. There was already a butcher knife out, though. God was he screwed. Belarus stepped forward, the angry eyes still locked onto the blonde.

"If I get rid of you, brother can marry me…"

Another step forward.

"Belarus," said a sickeningly familiar voice. Feliks ripped his eyes off the knife wielding female to look at the door. Ivan loomed in the frame, a glare set into the purple eyes. His clothing looked ruffled, not quite sitting on his frame properly, and was horrifically dirty. His scarf looked like it had seen better days as it lay limply around his neck.

Belarus automatically swung around, a suddenly delighted expression appearing on her face.

The idea of how screwed up this family was crossed Poland's mind, for just a moment.

"Brother~," Belarus said sweetly, the knife disappearing behind her back.

"What are you doing?" Russia demanded, his voice so drastically different from the normal sticky sweetness. Belarus's expression fell a bit.

"Just…saying hello…" she said cautiously.

"Go to your room," Ivan snapped.

"But- Brother!" was the instant protest.

"NOW!" Belarus's body visually slumped. She nodded a bit, and turned around. She threw Poland a malicious look and stomped off.

Poland was left standing there, staring at the still obviously pissed Russian.

"L-like…What's her malfunction?" Feliks tried, voice wavering a bit in fear. Ivan just glared, and turned his heel back into the room.

"In," he ordered.

"Like, I don't have to list-"

"IN." The demand was cold, icy even, and chilled Poland to the core. He followed Russia into the room.

It was Ivan's bedroom, most likely. Only a couple desk lamps were on, illuminating the number of empty vodka bottles that covered nearly every furniture surface. Among the furniture strewn about, few looked like they could be used any longer. Chairs lay broken, splintered legs lying next to them. A table had been upturned, garbage and more vodka bottles piled up in it's underside.

The smell hit Feliks like a brick wall. It wasn't anything new to his senses- just the smell of filth, like Russia hadn't cleaned the room in a long time. The fumes from who knows how many bottles of vodka stung at his eyes, making them water.

Ivan sighed, crossing the room towards the desk where a map was rolled out, its edges held down by more bottles.

"She's getting more and more frustrating…" he said, staring down at the map.

"When she said brunette…" Poland started. "She, like, meant…Leit?" His words were careful, unsure.

Russia turned back to the blonde, the sickeningly sweet expression having finally returned to his face. The expression frightened Feliks. It always had. The only thing it did was give warning of torture to come.

"Oh yes," he said pleasantly. "Soon, now, Lithuania will be one with me again. We'll have a nice family, yes?"

Poland threw Russia an angry look. How dare he speak like that? And after all the effort the Russian had put into giving the independent Lithuania so much of Poland's land!

"Like, don't you dare!" Feliks snapped. "Leit is mine! Mine! Kay?!"

The Russian just laughed. "Hopes still set on the glory days of the common wealth, Poland?" he asked. Feliks growled as a response. "All will become one under Russia," Ivan continued. "Stop resisting it."

"I'm going," the blonde snapped, turning back towards the door.

"No, you're not," was Ivan's reply. He was quick to move over to the door, snapping it shut. A hand wrapped around Poland's upper arm, pulling a bit.

"Hey!" Poland snapped, trying to pull his arm back.

Ivan only pulled harder. "Come along."

Poland fought being drug a bit, but the Russian was considerably stronger. Feliks was pushed down onto the bed, his body nudging bits of paper that looked like bits of crumpled map and bottles off the mattress top. The bed's springs creaked in protest, indicative of age. His wrists were pinned down into the sheets, and Ivan gave him an almost bored look.

"You're so defiant. It's getting dull," Russia said blandly. Feliks struggled about under the strong hands.

"Then, like, let me go!" he demanded. Ivan laughed a bit, although it was a hallow and lifeless noise. A sound that didn't quite seem right coming from him. He reached up, dragged the blonde's wrists with his hands, and snagged something that had been clamped down on the ornate headboard. There was a clicking noise, and cold cuffs wrapped around his wrists, entrapping him and attaching him to the bed's headboard. He made an instant attempt to pull his hands back, only to find that the cuffs weren't allowing him any escape. Feliks thrashed about, struggling in vain to free himself.

"YOU SICK FREAK!" he yelled. "Let me GO!"

Russia smirked faintly, hovering over the blonde's squirming form.

"You're almost as irritating as Belarus," Ivan said. "At least I won't feel bad if I have to silence you..."

A sinking feeling settled into Feliks's stomach. Was this man serious?

"W-What?" Poland managed to ask, eyes wide in shock, showing every bit of his bright green eyes.

A gloved hand pressed against his mouth.

"Hush," Russia said, a finger from his free hand pressing against his own lips. "Being noisome isn't going to serve you well here."

Poland threw the Russian an angry expression, moving his head a bit to try and sink his teeth into Ivan's hand. Ivan pulled his hand back, giving Feliks a displeased expression.

Before the blonde had time to think, the gloved hand connected hard with his face. Poland groaned, hands shifting to try and move, to touch his reddened cheek. It stung something feirce.

"Why do you try and defy me?" Russia asked, offering an expression that was entirely unreadable. Feliks growled from under Ivan's hand.

"Because you're, like, a sick bastard," he replied sharply. The Russian grabbed hold of his jaw, squeezing tightly. Poland wondered vaguely if his intent was to break it- It sure felt like it. The blonde fell silent, hoping he'd manage not to have his jaw snapped clean off. He just glared intently at the larger male until Ivan slowly retracted his hand.

With a sigh, he was up off the bed again, running fingers through his hair, leaving Poland to fuss and squirm about on the bed.

"If you're gonna wonder off, like, at least let my arms go, kay?!" Feliks yelled after the Russian. His complaints were ignored.

"So much to worry about..." Ivan said softly, slowly walking back to the desk with the map placed on it. Tapping the desk's surface with his finger tips, he frowned.

"So, like, is that why this place smells? No time to clean?" Feliks remarked, trying to shift to at least sit up without popping his arms out of their sockets. It wasn't working well; his wrists and shoulders screamed in protest as he tried to turn them correctly. The Russian laughed a bit- again the hollow noise. It bothered Poland more than Russia's normal laugh, which was pretty scary in itself- It meant something was wrong.

"His army keeps getting closer to the western border..." Ivan said, tapping on the map. Feliks didn't understand the comment, nor did he care, too determined as he was to free himself from the bed.

There was a sharp knock at the door, which seemed to surprise Ivan. He jumped a bit, an arm hitting an empty bottle on the tabletop and knocking it to the floor. The glass shattering into thousands of crystalline pieces against yet another bottle laying on the carpet.

Russia stared at the door for a moment before crossing the room. Moving towards Feliks, rather than the door. The man reached up and undid the blonde's wrists with a single swift movement.

Leaning down next to Poland's ear, he whispered, "When he comes in- Run. Hide." The order sounded ideal- although Feliks had no idea who 'he' was. He simply nodded in response, rubbing at his sore wrists.

The Russian was headed to the door. He pulled it open, and there stood Germany. Russia pushed forward a falsely cheery smile. Still nothing that seemed to fit his normal expressions and mood. Something was drastically wrong, and Germany's presence wasn't assuring Poland of anything different.

"Ah! Germany! I'm glad to see you." Germany didn't smile. Not that he ever seemed to do that often anyway.

"I am sure you have figured out why I am here," he said. Ivan was stepping backwards, pulling the following German further into the room.

"Of course," Russia replied, and threw a look at Poland.

Feliks took his chance and was out the door like a jet. He vaguely heard yells and the sound of breaking glass. Along with a sound he wanted to say was the same as a blunt object hitting flesh. A sound he knew all too well.

This wasn't something Poland would have expected. Had he ever expected Germany to turn on Russia like that? Heavens no. Not with the non-aggression pact in place.

He only prayed they'd kill each other, so Poland would be free again. Free, and this war could come to an end.

Feliks ran for quite some time- He wasn't sure how long. Eventually he settled down against a hallway wall, panting from lack of air. Who knew how long he sat there, or even if he was fully conscious the entire time. Hours, perhaps.

When Feliks had shifted back into full awareness, there stood the tall blonde man in the familiar Nazi uniform, blood splattered across his face and clothing.

Poland knew then- This war was not about to end.


End file.
